The small mirror above the basin was unkind the next morning. I scowled at my reflection. Pale cheeks, swollen eyes. Dry lips. I looked like death. I felt like death.
The bedroom door opened, but I continued staring at myself, lost in thought. Nightmares had always plagued my sleep, but last night—last night had been worse. I stroked the scar at the base of my throat softly, remembering.
It had been my sixteenth birthday. A witch entered womanhood at sixteen. My fellow witchlings had been excited for theirs, anxious to receive their rites as Dames Blanches.
I’d been different. I’d always known my sixteenth birthday would be the day I died. I’d accepted it—welcomed it, even, when my sisters had showered me with love and praise. My purpose since birth had been to die. Only my death could save my people.
But as I’d laid on that altar, the blade pressing into my throat, something had changed.
I had changed.
“Lou?” My husband’s voice echoed through the door. “Are you decent?”
I didn’t answer him. Humiliation burned in my gut at last night’s weakness. I clenched the basin, glaring at myself. I’d actually slept on the floor to be close to him. Weak.
“Lou?” When I still didn’t respond, he cracked the door open. “I’m coming in.”
Ansel hovered behind him, face drawn and concerned. I rolled my eyes at my reflection.
“What’s wrong?” My husband’s eyes searched my face. “Has something happened?”
I forced a smile. “I’m fine, thanks.”
They exchanged glances, and my husband jerked his head to the door. I pretended not to notice as Ansel left, as an awkward silence descended.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said finally.
“A dangerous pastime.”
He ignored me, swallowing hard. He had the air of someone about to rip off a bandage—equal parts determined and terrified. “There’s a show at Soleil et Lune tonight. Maybe we could go?”
“What show is it?”
“La Vie Éphémère.”
Of course it was. I chuckled without humor, staring at the shadows beneath my eyes. After Madame Labelle’s visit, I’d stayed up late into the night finishing Emilie and Alexandre’s story to distract myself. They’d lived and loved and died together—and for what?
It doesn’t end in death. It ends in hope.
Hope.
A hope they would never see, would never feel, would never touch. As elusive as smoke. As flickering flames.
The story was more fitting than my husband would ever know. The universe—or God, or the Goddess, or whoever—seemed to be poking fun at me. And yet . . . I glanced around at the stone walls. My cage. It’d be nice to escape this wretched place, even for a little while.
“Fine.”
I made to move past him into the bedroom, but he blocked the doorway. “Is something bothering you?”
“Nothing to concern yourself with.”
“Well I am concerned with it. You aren’t yourself.”
I managed a sneer, but it was too difficult to maintain. I yawned instead. “Don’t pretend to know me.”
“I know if you aren’t swearing or singing about well-endowed barmaids, something is wrong.” His mouth quirked, and he tentatively touched my shoulder, blue eyes sparkling. Like the sun on the ocean. I shook the thought away irritably. “What is it? You can tell me.”
No, I can’t. I turned away from his touch. “I said I’m fine.”
He dropped his hand, eyes shuttering. “Right. I’ll leave you alone then.”
I watched him leave with a twinge of what felt strangely like regret.
I poked my head out after a few moments, hoping he’d still be there, but he’d gone. My foul mood only worsened when I saw Ansel sitting at the desk. He watched me apprehensively, as if expecting me to sprout horns and spew fire—which, in this case, was exactly what I felt like doing.
I stormed toward him, and he leapt to his feet. A savage sort of satisfaction stole through me at his skittishness—then guilt. None of this was Ansel’s fault, and yet . . . I couldn’t force my spirits to lift. My dream still lingered. Unfortunately, so did Ansel.
“C-Can I help you with something?”
I ignored him, shouldering past his lanky form and yanking the desk drawer open. The journal and letters were still gone, leaving only a worn Bible inside. No knife. Damn it. I knew it’d been a long shot, but irritation—or perhaps fear—made me irrational. I turned and stomped toward the bed.
Ansel shadowed my footsteps, bewildered. “What are you doing?”
“Looking for a weapon.” I scratched at the headboard, trying and failing to pry it from the wall.
“A weapon?” His voice hitched incredulously. “W-What do you need a weapon for?”
I threw my weight against the blasted thing, but it was too heavy. “In case Madame Labelle or—er, someone else comes back. Help me with this.”
He didn’t move. “Someone else?”
I bit back a growl of impatience. It didn’t matter. He probably wouldn’t have hidden a knife in his little hole anyway. Not after he’d shown it to me.
Dropping to my stomach, I wriggled under the bed frame. The floorboards were spotless. Practically clean enough to eat from. I wondered if it was the maids or my husband with the obsessive tendencies. Probably my husband. He seemed the type. Controlling. Freakishly neat.
Ansel repeated his question, closer this time, but I ignored him, probing the floor for a hidden seam or loose board. There was nothing. Undeterred, I began knocking at regular intervals, listening for a telltale hollow thud.
Ansel stuck his head beneath the bed. “There are no weapons under here.”
“That’s exactly what I’d expect you to say.”
“Madame Diggory—”
“Lou.”
He cringed in a perfect imitation of my husband. “Louise, then—”
“No.” I whipped my head around to glare at him in the dark space, cracking my head against the frame and swearing violently. “Not Louise. Now move. I’m coming out.”
He blinked in confusion at the reprimand but scrambled back regardless. I crawled out after him.
There was an awkward pause.
“I don’t know why you’re so frightened of Madame Labelle,” he said finally, “but I assure you—”
Pffft. “I’m not frightened of Madame Labelle.”
“The—the someone else, then?” His brows dipped together as he tried to make sense of my mood. My scowl softened, but only infinitesimally. Though Ansel had attempted to remain distant after our disaster in the library two days ago, his efforts had proved futile. Mostly because I wouldn’t allow it. Beyond Coco, he was the only person in this wretched Tower I liked.
Liar.
Shut up.
“There is no one else,” I lied. “But you can’t be too careful. Not that I don’t trust your superior fighting skills, Ansel, but I’d rather not leave my safety up to, well . . . you.”
His confusion changed to hurt—then anger. “I can handle myself.”
“Agree to disagree.”
“You’re not getting a weapon.”
I hauled myself to my feet and brushed a nonexistent speck of dirt from my pants. “We’ll see about that. Where did my unfortunate husband run off to? I need to speak with him.”
“He won’t give you one either. He’s the one who hid them in the first place.”
“Aha!” I threw a triumphant finger in the air, and his eyes widened as I advanced on him. “So he did hide them! Where are they, Ansel?” I jabbed his chest with my finger. “Tell me!”
He swatted at my hand and stumbled backward. “I don’t know where he put them, so don’t poke at me—” I poked him again, just for the hell of it. “Ouch!” He rubbed the spot angrily. “I said I don’t know! Okay? I don’t know!”
I dropped my finger, suddenly feeling much better. I chuckled despite myself. “Right. I believe you now. Let’s go find my husband.”
Without another word, I turned on my heel and marched out the door. Ansel sighed in resignation before following suit.
“Reid isn’t going to like this,” he grumbled. “Besides, I don’t even know where he is.”
“Well, what is it you all usually do during the day?” I made to pull open the door to the stairwell, but Ansel caught it and held it open for me. Okay, I didn’t just like him—I adored him. “I assume it involves kicking puppies or stealing the souls of children.”
Ansel looked around anxiously. “You can’t say things like that. It’s inappropriate. You’re a Chasseur’s wife now.”
“Oh, please.” I gave an exaggerated eye roll. “I thought I’d already made it clear I don’t give a rat’s ass about being appropriate. Shall I remind you? There are two more verses to ‘Big Titty Liddy.’”
He paled. “Please don’t.”
I grinned in approval. “Then tell me where I can find my husband.”
A short pause followed as Ansel considered whether I was serious about continuing my big-breasted ballad. He must’ve decided I was—wisely—because he soon shook his head and muttered, “He’s probably in the council room.”
“Excellent.” I looped my arm through his and bumped his hip playfully. He tensed at the contact. “Lead the way.”
To my frustration, my husband wasn’t in the council room. Instead, another Chasseur turned to greet me. His close-cropped black hair gleamed in the candlelight, and his pale green eyes—striking against his bronze face—narrowed when they found mine. I fought back a frown.
Jean Luc.
“Good morning, thief.” He recovered his composure quickly, sweeping into a deep bow. “What can I do for you?”
Jean Luc wore his emotions as plainly as his beard, so it’d been easy to recognize his weakness. Though he masqueraded under pretense of friendship, I recognized jealousy when I saw it. Especially the festering kind.
Unfortunately, I had no time to play today.
“I’m looking for my husband,” I said, already backing out of the room, “but I see he isn’t here. If you’ll excuse me—”
“Nonsense.” He pushed away the papers he’d been examining and stretched leisurely. “Stay awhile. I need a break, anyway.”
“And how exactly can I help with that?”
He leaned back against the table and crossed his arms. “What do you need from our dear captain?”
“A knife.”
He chuckled, running a hand down his jaw. “Persuasive as you are, it’s highly unlikely even you will be able to procure a weapon here. The Archbishop seems to think you’re dangerous. Reid, as always, interprets His Eminence’s opinion as the word of God.”
Ansel moved farther into the room. His eyes narrowed. “You shouldn’t speak that way about Captain Diggory.”
Jean Luc inclined his head with a mocking smile. “I speak only truth, Ansel. Reid is my closest friend. He’s also the Archbishop’s pet.” He rolled his eyes, lip curling as if the word left a rancid taste in his mouth. “The nepotism is staggering.”
“Nepotism?” I arched a brow, looking between the two of them. “I thought my husband was orphaned.”
“He was.” Ansel glared daggers at Jean Luc. I hadn’t realized he could look so . . . antagonistic. “The Archbishop found him in the—”
“Do save us the sob story, won’t you? We all have one.” Jean Luc dropped his hand and shoved away from the table abruptly. He glanced back at me before returning to his papers. “The Archbishop thinks he sees himself in Reid. They were both orphans, both hellions as children. But that’s where the similarities end. The Archbishop created himself from nothing. His life work, his title, his influence—he fought for all of it. Bled for all of it.” He sneered, crumpling one of his papers and chucking it at the bin. “And he plans to give it all to Reid for nothing.”
“Jean Luc,” I asked shrewdly, “are you an orphan?”
His gaze sharpened. “Why?”
“I— No reason. It doesn’t matter.”
And it didn’t. Really. I didn’t give a damn about Jean Luc’s issues. But for someone to be so wholly blind to his own emotions . . . no wonder he was bitter. Cursing myself for my curiosity, I redirected my thoughts to my purpose. Procuring a weapon was more important—and frankly, more interesting—than those three’s twisted love triangle.
“You’re right, by the way.” I shrugged as if bored, sauntering forward to trail my finger along the map. He eyed me suspiciously. “My husband doesn’t deserve any of this. It’s pathetic, really, the way he waits for the Archbishop’s beck and call.” Ansel shot me a bewildered look, but I ignored him, examining a bit of dust on my finger. “Like a good boy—begging for scraps.”
Jean Luc smiled, small and grim. “Oh, you are devious, aren’t you?” When I didn’t respond, he chuckled. “While I empathize with you, Madame Diggory, I’m not so easily manipulated.”
“You aren’t?” I cocked my head at him. “Are you sure?”
He nodded and leaned forward on his elbows. “I’m sure. For all Reid’s faults, he has good reason for hiding his weapons from you. You’re a criminal.”
“Right. Of course. It’s just—I thought it might be beneficial to both of us.”
Ansel touched my arm. “Lou—”
“I’m listening.” Jean Luc’s eyes gleamed with amusement now. “You want a knife. What’s in it for me?”
I shrugged away from Ansel’s hand and returned his smile. “It’s simple. Giving me a knife would annoy the hell out of my husband.”
He laughed then. Tossed his head back and slapped the table, scattering his papers. “Oh, you really are a clever little witch, aren’t you?”
I stiffened, my smile slipping infinitesimally, before chuckling a second too late. Ansel didn’t seem to notice, but Jean Luc, with his sharp eyes, stopped laughing abruptly. He tilted his head to consider me, like a hound scenting a rabbit’s trail. Damn it. I forced a smile before turning to leave. “I’ve wasted enough of your time, Chasseur Toussaint. If you’ll excuse me, I need to find my elusive husband.”
“Reid isn’t here.” Jean Luc still watched me with unnerving focus. “He left earlier with the Archbishop. A lutin infestation was reported outside the city.” Mistaking my frown for concern, he added, “He’ll be back in a few hours. Lutins are hardly dangerous, but the constabulary aren’t equipped to handle the supernatural.”
I pictured the small hobgoblins I’d played with as a child. “They aren’t dangerous at all.” The words left my mouth before I could stop them. “I mean . . . what will he do to them?”
Jean Luc arched a brow. “He’ll exterminate them, of course.”
“Why?” I ignored Ansel’s insistent tugs on my arm, heat rising to my face. I knew I should stop talking. I recognized the spark in Jean Luc’s eyes for what it was—an inkling. An instinct. An idea that might soon turn into something more if I didn’t keep my mouth shut. “They’re harmless.”
“They’re nuisances to farmers, and they’re unnatural. It’s our job to eliminate them.”
“I thought it was your job to protect the innocent?”
“And lutins are innocent?”
“They’re harmless,” I repeated.
“They shouldn’t exist. They were born from reanimated clay and witchcraft.”
“Wasn’t Adam sculpted from the earth?”
He tilted his head slowly, considering me. “Yes . . . by the hand of God. Are you suggesting witches possess the same authority?”
I hesitated, finally realizing what I was saying—and where I was. Jean Luc and Ansel both stared at me, waiting for my response. “Of course not.” I forced myself to meet Jean Luc’s curious gaze, blood roaring in my ears. “That’s not what I was saying at all.”
“Good.” His smile was small and unsettling as Ansel dragged me to the door. “Then we’re in agreement.”
Ansel kept shooting me anxious glances as we walked to the infirmary, but I ignored him. When he finally opened his mouth to question me, I did what I did best—deflected.
“I think Mademoiselle Perrot will be here this morning.”
He brightened visibly. “Will she?”
I smiled and nudged his arm with my shoulder. He didn’t tense this time. “There’s a good chance.”
“And—and will she let me visit the patients with you today?”
“Less of a chance.”
He sulked the rest of the way up the stairs. I couldn’t help but chuckle.
The familiar, soothing scent of magic greeted us as we stepped into the infirmary.
Come play come play come play
But I was hardly there to play. A fact Coco substantiated when she met us at the door. “Hello, Ansel,” she said breezily, looping her arm through mine and steering me to Monsieur Bernard’s room.
“Hello, Mademoiselle Perr—”
“Goodbye, Ansel.” She shut the door in his besotted face.
I frowned at her. “He likes you, you know. You should be nicer to him.”
She threw herself into the iron chair. “That’s why I’m not encouraging him. That poor boy is far too good for me.”
“Maybe you should let him decide that.”
“Hmm . . .” She examined a particularly nasty scar on her wrist before tugging her sleeve back down. “Maybe I should.”
I rolled my eyes and went to greet Monsieur Bernard.
Though it’d been two days, the poor man still hadn’t died. He didn’t sleep. He didn’t eat. Father Orville and the healers had no idea how he stayed alive. Whatever the reason, I was glad. I’d grown rather fond of his eerie stare.
“I heard about Madame Labelle,” Coco said. True to his word, Jean Luc had spoken with the priests, and true to their word, they’d kept a much closer eye on their newest healer after her interference in the library. She hadn’t dared leave the infirmary again. “What did she want?”
I sank to the floor beside Bernie’s bed and crossed my legs. His white, orb-like eyes followed me all the way down, his finger tapping against the chains.
Clink.
Clink.
Clink.
“To give me a warning. She said my mother is coming.”
“She said that?” Coco’s gaze sharpened, and I quickly related what had happened yesterday evening. By the time I’d finished, she was pacing. “It doesn’t mean anything. We know she’s after you. Of course she’s coming. That doesn’t mean she knows you’re here—”
“You’re right. It doesn’t. But I still want to be ready.”
“Of course.” She nodded vigorously, curls bouncing. “Let’s get started, then. Enchant the door. A pattern you haven’t used before.”
I stood and walked toward the door, rubbing my hands together against the chill in the room. Coco and I had decided to enchant it against eavesdroppers during our practice sessions. It wouldn’t do for anyone to hear our whispered conversations about magic.
As I approached, I willed the familiar golden patterns to appear. They materialized at my call, hazy and ubiquitous. Against my skin. Inside my mind. I waded through them, searching for something fresh. Something different. After several fruitless minutes, I threw my hands up in frustration. “There’s nothing new.”
Coco came to stand beside me. As a Dame Rouge, she couldn’t see the patterns I saw, but she tried nonetheless. “You’re not thinking about it properly. Examine every possibility.”
I closed my eyes, forcing myself to take a deep breath. Once, envisioning and manipulating patterns had come easily—as easily as breathing. But no longer. I’d been hiding for too long. Repressing my magic for too long. Too many dangers had lurked in the city: witches, Chasseurs, and even citizens all recognized the peculiar smell of magic. Though it was impossible to discern a witch from her appearance, unattended women always aroused suspicion. How long before someone had smelled me after an enchantment? How long before someone had seen me contorting my fingers and followed me home?
I’d used magic at Tremblay’s, and look where it’d landed me.
No. It’d been safer to stop practicing magic altogether.
I explained to Coco that it was like exercising a muscle. When used routinely, the patterns came quickly, clearly, usually of their own volition. If left unattended, however, that part of my body—the part connected to my ancestors, to their ashes in the land—grew weak. And every second it took to untangle a pattern, a witch could strike.
Madame Labelle had been clear. My mother was in the city. Perhaps she knew where I was, or perhaps she didn’t. Either way, I couldn’t afford weakness.
As if listening to my thoughts, the golden dust seemed to shift closer, and the witches at the parade reared in my mind’s eye. Their crazed smiles. The bodies floating helplessly above them. I repressed a shudder, and a wave of hopelessness crashed through me.
No matter how often I practiced—no matter how skilled I grew—I would never be as powerful as some. Because witches like those at the parade—witches willing to sacrifice everything for their cause—weren’t merely powerful.
They were dangerous.
Though a witch couldn’t see another’s patterns, feats such as drowning or burning a person alive required enormous offerings to maintain balance: perhaps a specific emotion, perhaps a year’s worth of memories. The color of their eyes. The ability to feel another’s touch.
Such losses could . . . change a person. Twist her into something darker and stranger than she was before. I’d seen it happen once.
But that was a long time ago.
Even if I couldn’t hope to grow more powerful than my mother, I refused to do nothing.
“If I hinder the healers’ and priests’ ability to hear us, I’m impairing them. I’m taking from them.” I brushed aside the gold clinging to my skin, straightening my shoulders. “I have to impair myself as well, somehow. One of my senses . . . hearing is the obvious trade, but I’ve already done that. I could give another sense, like touch or sight or taste.”
I paused and examined the patterns. “Taste isn’t enough—the balance is still tipped in my favor. Sight is too much, as I’d be rendered ineffectual. So . . . it has to be touch. Or maybe smell?” I focused on my nose, but no new pattern emerged.
Clink.
Clink.
Clink.
I glared over at Bernie, my concentration slipping. The patterns vanished. “I love you, Bernie, but could you please shut up? You’re making this difficult.”
Clink.
Coco poked me in the cheek, directing my attention back to the door. “Keep going. Try a different perspective.”
I swatted her hand away. “That’s easy for you to say.” Gritting my teeth, I stared at the door so hard I feared my eyes might explode. Perhaps that would be balance enough. “Maybe . . . maybe I’m not taking from them. Maybe they’re giving me something.”
“Like secrecy?” Coco prompted.
“Yes. Which means—which means—”
“Maybe you could try telling a secret.”
“Don’t be stupid. It doesn’t work like—”
A thin, golden cord snaked between my tongue and her ear. Shit.
That was the trouble with magic. It was subjective. For every possibility I considered, another witch would consider a hundred different ones. Just as no two minds worked the same, no two witches’ magic worked the same. We all saw the world differently.
Still, I needn’t tell Coco that.
She flashed a smug smile and raised a brow, as if reading my thoughts. “It sounds to me like there are no hard and fast rules to this magic of yours. It’s intuitive.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “To be honest, it reminds me of blood magic.”
Footsteps echoed in the corridor outside, and we stilled. When they didn’t pass—when they halted in front of the door—Coco retreated to the corner, and I slipped into the iron chair by Bernie’s bed. I flipped the Bible open and began reading a verse at random.
Father Orville hobbled through the door.
“Oh!” He clutched his chest when he saw us, his eyes forming perfect circles behind his spectacles. “Dear me! You gave me a fright.”
Smiling, I rose to my feet as Ansel hastened into the room. Bits of cookie sprinkled his lips. Obviously he’d invaded the healers’ kitchen. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, of course.” I returned my attention to Father Orville. “My apologies, Father. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“Not at all, child, not at all. I’m just a bit overwrought this morning. We had a strange night. Our patients are unusually . . . agitated.” He waved a hand, revealing a metal syringe, and joined me at Bernie’s bedside. My smile froze in place. “I see you too are concerned for our Monsieur Bernard. Last night one of my healers found him attempting to jump out a window!”
“What?” I locked eyes with Bernie, frowning, but his mutilated face gave nothing away. Not even a flicker. He remained . . . blank. I shook my head. His pain must’ve been terrible.
Father Orville patted my shoulder. “Not to worry, child. It won’t happen again.” He lifted a feeble hand to show me the syringe. “We’ve perfected the dosage this time. I’m sure of it. This injection will soothe his agitation until he joins the Lord.”
He pulled a thin dagger from his robes and cut a small incision on Bernie’s arm. Coco stepped forward, eyes narrowed, as black blood oozed out. “He’s gotten worse.”
Father Orville fumbled with the syringe. I doubted he could even see Bernie’s arm, but he finally managed to plunge the quill deep into the black cut. I cringed when he pushed the trigger, injecting the poison, but Bernie didn’t move. He just kept staring at me.
“There now.” Father Orville eased the quill out of his arm. “He should drift off to sleep momentarily. Might I suggest we leave him in peace?”
“Yes, Father,” Coco said, bowing her head. She shot me a meaningful look. “C’mon, Lou. Let’s go read some Proverbs.”
